Wisdom Too Great
by WhyAye
Summary: When people start dying from animal attacks, Lewis and Hathaway must decide if there's something more sinister: human intervention? Or is it the intervention of the gods themselves?
1. Prologue

A/N: I'm aware I've taken liberties with Norse mythology, combining bits of different translations because I like them, and with Oxford's geography, for convenience's sake. But, hey, it's _fiction_, right? And of course, I do not own nor gain anything financial from using Colin Dexter's and ITV's characters.

* * *

_A measure of wisdom each man shall have,  
But never too much let him know;  
For the wise man's heart is seldom happy,  
If wisdom too great he has won._

_- The Poetic Edda: Hávamál, stanza 55_

* * *

James Hathaway drained the remains of his pint of best and checked the glass of his companion to see how much brown was left there. Considerably less than half the pint.

"My shout?" He prepared to stand.

Robbie Lewis picked up his glass and finished it off in one swallow. He grinned. _Obviously feeling pretty good_, his Sergeant decided.

"Yeah, why not?" Handed over his glass.

When James returned, Robbie took a long pull and then wiped the trace of foam from his top lip. "Plans for the weekend?" They'd finished up a tough case this week and it looked as though the weekend would, for once, be two complete days of rest.

Hathaway gave a quiet snort. "Oh yeah, big plans." The raised eyebrow caused a rueful grin to spread across the younger man's face. "Three big loads of washing, a lot of loose change, and that's me at the laundromat half of Saturday."

Lewis huffed in amusement. "I thought you were going to buy a new machine."

Hathaway peered into his pint glass. "I chucked that plan. What else gets me out of the flat and into the real world?"

A wry grin. "Well, _work_, I woulda thought."

"Not exciting enough."

Lewis shook his head and chuckled. "If you say so, Sergeant."

James only smiled enigmatically. He sipped a while on his beer, studying the surface of the amber liquid. At last he looked up.

"And yourself?"

Robbie blinked at the unexpected question. "What?"

"Plans for the weekend? Or aren't you at liberty to say?" He cocked an eyebrow with all the insinuation he was capable of mustering. Which was, in fact, a lot.

"Alright, Sergeant, enough cheek for one night." Robbie took a long swallow before answering, deliberately drawing out his time to respond.

"As it happens, I will be spending much of the weekend with Wagner. Radio 3 is airing the entire Ring Cycle, the Solti-Vienna Philharmonic recording, from noon to eight Saturday and Sunday."

Hathaway stared. "And you are . . . looking forward to this?" His voice and expression betrayed his disbelief.

"It's a terrific story . . ." Lewis trailed off, his gaze unfocused.

Hathaway's eyes narrowed. His silence outlasted Lewis's charade, and the older man cracked a grin.

"Okay, I plan to do a bit of redecorating. Painting, specifically, and the Ring Cycle, I figure, will take me mind off the tedium of all that boring prep work."

Hathaway nodded sagely, still saying nothing and forcing Robbie to fill the awkward silence.

"Well, y'know. Power over the world, betrayal, death of the gods . . . it's not something we have to deal with every day, is it?" He drained the remains of his pint. He was slightly embarrassed, and it made him surly, clipping his words. "Nice change of pace. More exciting than doing washing all weekend." He stood. "I've got a lot of work ahead of me over the next two days, so I'd better get on to bed. See you Monday, then."

"'Night." Hathaway, looking slightly amused, watched him go.


	2. Saturday

"Ah, bugger it."

James glanced up at the woman struggling with the uncooperative change machine. Despite a large sign reading:

_"Out"_

_of_

"_Order"_

(complete with the disturbingly unnecessary quotation marks), she repeatedly tried to feed it a five-pound note. Hathaway studied her, telling himself he was only acting as he'd been trained and that no unprofessional reason was behind his close scrutiny of the woman.

She was of indeterminate age—seemingly wise and a bit world-weary, but at the same time fresh and vigorous. Her flame-red hair was pulled back in a simple, loose ponytail. A few wayward strands had escaped, and they kept falling across her face and into her eyes. She unconsciously pushed them back from her forehead, tucking them behind the fragile pink shells of her ears. In contrast to her small ears, her nose arched regally, like the prow of a proud ship.

"Bugger it," she repeated under her breath, and slapped the machine.

"I have plenty of change, if you need some." James volunteered.

She glanced at him, a flicker of suspicion at first. But she became confident after a quick scan of his honest expression. When she broke into a genuine smile, it was as though a shaft of golden sunlight cascaded into the dingy place.

"Oh, that's very kind of you, Mister . . . ?" She cocked her head inquisitively.

"Hathaway—er, James, please." He couldn't have explained why he suddenly felt bashful.

She smiled broadly and held out her hand. "Freyja," she said simply, and her grip was firm and warm. "Change would be much appreciated; otherwise, I'll have to go all the way home and come back and try this again later." She twisted her mouth at the balky change machine. "I'm here pretty much every Saturday and it's always working." As James fished coins from his pocket, she studied him. "Don't recall ever seeing you here, though."

Hathaway felt himself blush.

"I . . . er . . . always do my washing on a weeknight. But this week . . . well, suddenly it's Saturday and here I am with no clean shirts for the coming week," He didn't want to explain the sordid details of how the week's evenings had been occupied by a barroom brawl and domestic assault that resulted in a young mother nearly dying at the hands of her drugged-up boyfriend.

Yet, as Freyja considered him closely, he almost got the feeling that she knew about it anyway. But then her brow smoothed and her radiant smile returned. "Not for me. Saturday is washing day, without fail."

She loaded the washing machine, James making an effort not to stare at the clothes to see if there were any men's items included. They lapsed into silence then, watching ten days' worth of James's shirts tumbling 'round in the dryer. She was sitting next to him, their thighs nearly touching, and he wordlessly breathed in her scent, unable to identify it precisely. Freshly turned earth, woodsmoke, hyacinth, freesia, and the smell of rain cooling hot concrete . . . he sorted and categorized the different fragrances he detected until he noticed she was gazing at him, the corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement. He couldn't help smiling in return.

"So, James—if you don't mind my asking—what is it you do? I get the sense that it must be terribly grim." Although she kept the amused smile, James could see the wisdom behind her eyes. _Maybe she's older than she appears._ And he hesitated before answering. Admitting to being a policeman was often a conversation killer. People's eyes shadowed over as though curtains had pulled shut; smiles tightened, no longer open and friendly. But he felt an ability—almost a need, he realized—to trust this woman he had just met.

He inhaled.

"It can be grim, yes. I'm a police detective. Homicide, mostly."

"Oh, I knew it was something like that!" Her delight at being correct easily won over his reserve. "You seem so dour!" She almost clapped her hands with pleasure, but then she caught herself.

"Or, maybe not 'dour.' Maybe 'wiser than your years should allow.'" Her brow furrowed in concern. "You must see some terrible things."

He wanted to brush back the worry from her forehead and tuck it harmlessly behind her ear as she had done with her stray hair; wanted to take her hand in his and say how one golden smile would help him forget the things he'd seen. But before he could take action, he heard a low rumbling, like a heavy freight train passing, and felt his chair juddering beneath him. Alarmed, his eyes shot up and connected with Freyja's. Hers were also alarmed but comprehending. Fixing his gaze, she mouthed a single word.

_Earthquake_.

Although Hathaway had never experienced an earthquake, he knew instinctively that Freyja was right, and they both sat rigid until the rumbling and trembling ceased. James relaxed at this point, but Freyja seemed agitated still, and she jumped to her feet and went to the window, staring out at the small cottage across the road from the laundromat.

"What is it, Freyja?" He settled in beside her, only just resisting the urge to stretch his arm around her waist. "It couldn't have caused much damage. And surely, there have been earthquakes here in the past."

She was distracted, and she nodded at him without saying anything, eyes fixed on the chickens in the yard across the way. A brilliant, scarlet rooster suddenly pitched back his head and crowed loudly, and James saw Freyja bite her lower lip. As though it was entering a competition, a second rooster began to crow, this one a golden yellow. And in the garden of the cottage next door, a sooty, rust-red rooster hopped to the top of a tree stump and added his loud voice to the other two.

James was startled to hear a gasp next to him, and he turned sharply. Freyja, her face ashy white, stared out the window, eyes wide.

"Now the dog howls." Barely a whisper.

"Dog?" James asked. But she was not speaking to him. And indeed, he heard a deep, growling howl from farther down the road. _How did she know?_

He stared unabashedly at her, secure in the knowledge that she was utterly unaware of him. The spell was broken by the sudden harsh buzz of a washing machine, announcing the end of its cycle.

Freyja glanced at James, her eyes severe. She threw open the offending machine and hurriedly dumped its contents into the basket she had brought.

"Freyja . . ." Hathaway took hold of her arm, but she shook him off.

"No, James, it's starting. It's _starting_." She stared at him, her eyes piercing, icy and as old as the world. "Forget you ever met me. I must go." She turned on her heel and strode from the place, leaving only her faint and already fading scent.


	3. Sunday

"Morning, boys. Everyone have a restful Saturday?" Dr. Laura Hobson approached the two detectives as they emerged from Lewis's Vauxhall. The Coventry Wildlife Park was quiet; it didn't open until noon on Sundays.

Lewis flashed ironic eyebrows in response, but his eyes sparkled at her. His subconscious noted that Hathaway didn't respond. "What have we got, Doctor?"

She put her hands up, one on the chest of each man, stopping their forward progress. Her eyes dropped to the ground.

"It's, erm . . . a bit more gruesome than usual." She glanced up, checking to see that they were paying proper attention. Both men halted, recognizing the seriousness of her tone. "A lot of blood."

Lewis cocked his head. "Laura?" She knew as well as he that they'd seen "a lot of blood" plenty of times before.

"It looks ritualistic." She stared at Lewis until she was certain he understood what she was trying to tell him. _This one is nasty_. Lewis nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Right." Very quiet. "Erm . . . maybe you should describe it to us before we have a look?" He noted her raised eyebrow. "So we know what to expect." His half-smile and hopeful expression easily overcame her resistance.

Hobson took a deep breath and then dove in. "He's lying face down and he's been cut—well, 'hewn' might be more accurate—along his spine with something heavy. An axe? Ribs severed at the point where they join the spinal column and pulled apart to each side—" she gestured, opening her hands as in supplication. "—like opening a book. His lungs were pulled out through his back, past the spinal column and upward, each lobe up toward the shoulder, like wings." She gestured again, and then studied the two detectives, seeing if her words had meaning to them. Their pale faces satisfied her. But she wasn't done describing the suffering of the deceased.

"And salt was poured into his wounds. The pain would have been most severe."

Lewis concentrated on her. Laura did not speak lightly of pain, and the control she exercised over her voice told him volumes.

"He was alive during this? He bled to death?" His tone hinted at a concern for something other than the deceased's mode of dying.

She touched his arm. "Yes. Or—" She hesitated. Lewis waited. "He might have had a heart attack from the pain and stress. I'll know more after the PM." Then she added quietly, "Some time between ten and eleven p.m. last night." Then, all businesslike, "I should have your results by . . ." she consulted her watch. "Three. Don't be late."

"Thank you, Doctor." Lewis put a hand on her shoulder and then cast his eyes around, taking in the surroundings. "Can we do something about . . ." He gestured toward a fenced enclosure, behind which six or seven mottled grey wolves flinched and offered muttered howls, their yellow eyes staring at the bloody corpse lying not three feet from the fence. As he watched, they danced toward and away from it, as though alternately fascinated and repelled.

A man stepped forward, clad in a uniform that identified him as an employee of the Coventry Wildlife Park, and he moved past the PCs who were keeping the other zoo staff out of the way. "They're upset by the closeness of the dead body. They'll calm down once it is removed." He did not sound as certain as his words might indicate.

Hathaway's attention snapped to him. "And you are?"

"Tyrone Battle, Sir. I'm curator of canids, Sir." He looked even more nervous than his voice indicated.

Lewis flicked his eyes toward Laura. "You can move him." He didn't say another word to her or to Hathaway for the moment, moving instead toward the wolf enclosure and studying the animals there.

Hathaway sidled toward the knot of huddled employees and volunteers, but his steps slowed when he recognized a woman with flame-red hair pulled back in a ponytail.

"Freyja? You work here?"

She looked almost apologetic. "Erm, yes. I'm a keeper."

He could tell she was shaken.

"You know this man?" He waved vaguely toward where Hobson's team was preparing to move the body.

"I know he volunteers here. Erm, that's all I know. I've seen him here but I've never spoken to him. Don't know his name." She pursed her lips and her forehead furrowed. "Sorry, that's not much help."

"'S'okay." He put an arm around her shoulder and felt her shaking. Without a word, he guided her toward the fence, behind which the small pack of wolves, hackles raised, still uttered low noises. James wondered if there was any connection between the murder and the weird events of the day before. _Obvious answer, James, is 'yes'—Her_. He pushed the thought away.

With the corner of his eye, Lewis caught their motion away from the locus, but he said nothing to his Sergeant. Instead, he began methodically questioning the rest of the staff of the wildlife park.

The chilly breeze picked up speed, becoming a steady wind, and Hathaway steered Freyja past the wolves and toward one of the exhibit buildings. As they reached it, James heard a deep growl, coming from around the stucco corner. He stepped back and looked for the source of the sound. A furry, black dog with a massive head was enclosed in a chain-link run. His ears were pulled back, his teeth bared, and his eyes narrowed as the fierce rumble continued.

James turned to Freyja. "Is this one off-exhibit?"

She smiled a little. "That's Harmer, he's the night watchman." She turned and noted Hathaway's puzzled expression. "He's allowed free run of the reptile house at night. He can cover the area much more efficiently than a human and he knows which sounds belong and which don't." She noted his quizzical expression. "There are poisonous snakes in that building. Very valuable and very dangerous. It's worthy of a special guard." She shivered again.

James hugged her instinctively. "Let's get you out of this wind." They entered the nearest exhibit building, but James hesitated just inside the door. It was clear they were now in the reptile house. "Oh."

She smiled at him broadly now. "What's this? A homicide detective afraid of a few snakes and spiders?"

"Spiders?" His swallow was audible.

She gestured toward one end of the shadowy building. "The invertebrates are housed in here temporarily while their exhibits undergo renovation. You also don't like spiders?"

"I _especially_ don't like spiders."

She chuckled softly.

He wanted to ask her more about what happened at the laundromat, but held back. She seemed fragile in some way, and was only beginning to calm down after the morning's horror. So instead, he sighed. "I should get to work. You have an office or staffroom or something?"

She nodded, and wordlessly turned and guided him out of the building and toward the front of the park. As they walked, Hathaway asked her basic interview questions, how long she'd worked there (three years), whether anything like this had ever happened (it hadn't), and if she knew anything about the dead man (she didn't).

"He's worked here almost as long as I have, and I don't even know his name, isn't that awful? We go about our lives so unaware, it seems."

James didn't answer the question. "Let's get you some tea."

* * *

Lewis studied his notepad. He'd talked to everyone of interest, except that redhead Hathaway had wandered off with. Left him to do all the legwork, hadn't he? Lewis snorted to himself. Not like Hathaway to abandon his duties just because of an interesting woman.

His attention was drawn by movement inside the wolf enclosure. A keeper had brought the largest of the wolves into a small side pen, and he was restraining it with a length of cord. Lewis turned to Tyrone Battle.

"What's goin' on there?"

"Ah, that's Greyback. He's the leader of our little pack. Unusually large for a Mexican Wolf."

"Mexican Wolf?"

"A very rare subspecies of _canis lupus_, Inspector. We participate in a program to advance the controlled reproduction of these animals. We're the only zoological park outside of North America to have more than one in our collection. Our keeper, Freyja Godwin, specializes in their reproduction. Her business is to match Greyback with suitable mates and promote successful copulation. She's very good at it."

"Ah." Lewis felt himself blush slightly.

Battle chuckled. "It's important work, Inspector. Greyback has already sired ten genetically valuable pups. They've been sent to other zoos all over the world to enhance the genetic variability of the species."

"So why is he being tied up?"

"It has a calming effect on him. If he's calm, the rest of the pack is calm. It might take a while before he stops fighting the restraints. We've had special Kevlar lines made. They're incredibly strong. He can break everything else we've tried. But by tomorrow morning, when the smell of the body has dissipated, everything should be back to normal around here. In the meantime, we have a sign posted at the exhibit to reassure zoo guests that he's not being punished or abused in any way."

"I suppose you'd get a lot of questions otherwise?"

"Yes, people always think anything unusual at a zoo is some sort of problem."

"But it's not?"

"Inspector." Battle gave Lewis a broad, toothy smile. "Almost everything that happens at a zoo could be considered unusual or unnatural. And almost none of it is a problem."

There was a sudden burst of activity from the small pen. "Oi! Get back here!" The keeper had lost his grip on Greyback, who swirled and juked, easily evading recapture.

"Please excuse me." Battle nodded his apologies at the interruption, and entered the small pen, his swift and certain movements a stark contrast to the tentative actions of the junior keeper. He soon had Greyback under control, and held him still while the keeper replaced the bindings. Lewis frowned when he realized that Greyback's cooperation was won, at least in part, by Battle's willingness to place his own right hand in the great animal's jaws, as though proving he was trustworthy by demonstrating he trusted the wolf.

But Battle's trust was misplaced. Without warning, Greyback clamped his jaws down hard, and Battle yelped in pain and leaped away from the wolf. But the bite came too late. Greyback had been secured. Apparently sensing this, he immediately settled down, turning his head away from the humans.

Lewis was already on his phone, summoning emergency assistance. He helped the curator bind his injury to staunch the bleeding.

"Don't tell me _this_ is either not unusual or not a problem."

Tyrone Battle recognized the irony of the situation and allowed himself a pale smile. "Point taken, Inspector."

* * *

By this time, Hathaway had returned, flipping through his own notepad as though he had written copious notes there. But Lewis knew it for a ruse, having caught a glimpse of the empty pages.

Gazing away from James, Lewis kept his tone flat. "Well, I think we've about finished here, don't you, Sergeant?" He watched the ambulance drive off, Tyrone Battle within.

Hathaway swallowed. He knew he hadn't done his share of the legwork. "Sir, I—"

Frowning, the inspector waved him off. "Save it, Hathaway." He gestured toward their car. They drove the whole way to the office in silence. Hathaway could not come up with a way to break into conversation.

When they were sitting at their desks, Robbie offered some willingness to give a little. "What do you make of all this? You kept a rather low profile out there at the zoo."

"Wildlife Park, Sir."

Lewis shot his eyes at his sergeant. "Just answer me."

James recognized the mandate. "I . . . I'm not sure I know how to answer. The killing was . . . rather gory, compared to our usual blunt trauma death. Like something from a TV show. Remember that _Messiah_ cop show? The killings always seemed to have a text." He attempted an expression of injured honesty.

It fell flat on his senior officer.

"What do you know that you're not telling me? What did Freyja Godwin tell you?" Lewis's gaze was harsh. He knew his sergeant was aware of how he disfavored secrets between them.

"I . . ." Hathaway staggered, unable to express his suspicions. "I don't _know_ anything. I didn't even know her last name. Honest."

"_What_, Hathaway?" The shout was like a slap, and Hathaway physically recoiled from it. "What do you _know_?" Lewis fixed him with his steely eyes, daring him to insouciance. Hathaway met his gaze, staring back, unable to answer. "What do you think, then." Not a question, and again, said with insistence. But it was a step away from the hostilities Lewis had implicitly threatened.

James breathed deeply, trying to marshal his wits. What did he really know, anyway? Not much of significance.

"I _know_ nothing, Sir. Just suspicions, coincidences, nonentities. Let me look into things for a day, right? And I'll report on what I've worked out. Okay? Once I know something, I'll be happier about it."

The senior officer glared. "No. We work together, or not at all. What you would tell me with assurance tomorrow, tell me with uncertainty today." He studied the younger man, glowering. "Wisdom doesn't make a man happy. You'll find that out when you have enough of it." Then, feeling a little guilty at lecturing his sergeant, his tone softened. "Unlike you to shirk your duties for a pretty face. What is it about her?"

James felt himself reddening, and he took his time answering. "I met her yesterday, doing the washing. She needed change for the machine, and I had plenty, and . . . well, we started talking."

Lewis cracked a crooked smile. "You don't have to make up an excuse for talking to her."

Hathaway frowned at his tone. "There's something about her, something . . . I dunno. Wise?" His eyes narrowed as he thought back. "And something weird happened. The earthquake. Did you feel it, Sir?"

The quake had been all over the news. Not that it had done any damage, but it was a pretty unusual phenomenon.

Lewis nodded. "Yeah, I was up the ladder when it started. A bit unnerving, I think the ladder emphasized the effect. Got down as quick as I could." He was relaxing now that James was beginning to talk sensibly.

As Hathaway described the odd occurrences he experienced at the time of the quake, Lewis's brow creased in concern. "And what did she say at the zoo today?"

"Wildli—" Hathaway caught the start of a glare and managed to stop himself. He coughed a little and began again. "She didn't say much. Didn't know the deceased other than recognizing him as a volunteer. But I could tell she was really upset by it."

"Upset." Lewis mulled over the word. "By the gore? By the identity of the victim? By yesterday's howling dog? What?" Lewis stared at his sergeant, willing him to remember things important to the case.

"She was really shaken." He thought some, then. "She's probably seen that reaction to violence the wolves showed, though I'll need to check on that. But assuming she has, it must have been the condition of the victim that upset her."

* * *

They had made little progress by the time they were due at the mortuary. Laura Hobson could unerringly sense the tension between the partners, and that sensibility set the tone of her report. She always was especially objective and accurate when she knew "her boys" weren't exactly getting along.

Hathaway always watched when his boss encountered the doctor, sometimes he caught a bit of a sparkle between them. But this time, Lewis was all business.

"Do we have an ID?"

She gave a short nod, handing him an evidence bag with a wallet inside. "Joseph Baldwin. Here are his details." She passed him a typed report.

Lewis bent over the body, peering closely at his neck. "What's he got there?"

"It's a tattoo of a bird of some sort. Crow or raven, something like that. Thunderbird, maybe." She continued, staring at the back of Lewis's head. "As I said earlier, these injuries would have been extremely painful. However, his cooperation as a victim was no doubt facilitated by the fact that he was sky high on morphine by then." She ended her explanation with a cock of her head.

Lewis straightened and his brow began the slow furrowing she expected it to take.

"Sssooo . . ." He stopped and exhaled.

"Did the overdose kill him or did he bleed to death?" Hathaway supplied, his temper seemingly as short as his question.

Laura looked at him sharply. "He bled to death." She waited a beat before continuing. "But he wouldn't have been very aware of the pain by then."

"Doctor, have you ever seen another killing like this?" Lewis seemed unable to take his eyes off the body.

She shook her head. "No. But I have heard of it. Some sort of pagan ritual, I believe."

Hathaway cocked his head. "Pagan? Can you be a bit more specific?"

She frowned a little. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, that's all I know. And I wouldn't even swear to that much."

* * *

When they were back in the office, Lewis went back over his notes from the morning.

"That George Sutter was a bit odd, I thought."

Hathaway didn't look up from what he was doing. "Hmm?" Distracted by his computer.

"George Sutter, at the zoo. That bloody mountain of a man, didn't you see him?" When Hathaway shook his head, Lewis looked at his notepad, frowning. "_Herpetologist_."

That got his sergeant's attention. "A reptile keeper?" Eyes very beady.

"If you say so." Lewis smirked.

Hathaway twisted his mouth, having been reminded of his near absence at the Wildlife Park. "Well, you would be odd, wouldn't you, in that line of work." He softened his tone then, adding a hint of apology. "Anyone else strike you as strange?"

Lewis reviewed the notepad. "Fred Godwin." He emphasized the surname and saw with secret satisfaction that he now had James's full attention.

"Freyja's . . . ?" James couldn't bring himself to say _husband_.

"_Brother_. But blond, rather than ginger. Very . . . full of himself." Lewis managed to suppress a grin at James's obvious relief.

Hathaway cocked his head, questioningly. "Full of himself?"

"Very virile."

Furrowed brow. "How do you mean, 'virile'?"

Lewis avoided pointing out that if the sergeant had been properly attending to his duties, he'd know. "Tight t-shirt, well filled out with rippling muscles, tight jeans, well filled out with . . . y'know. That sort of thing. Strapping lad for his height. Like a wrestler."

Hathaway snorted.

"You'd better be careful around his sister." Lewis finished, satisfied with the scowl his comment drew.

* * *

After working at their desks for nearly an hour, they headed for the incident room, where they began to draw up the details on the big white board there, every now and then interrupted by a constable bringing a follow-up report of some detail or other. When they were done, there were a lot of lines going nowhere and question marks without answers.

"Investigation not proceeding at the usual pace, gentlemen?" DCS Jean Innocent had come up silently, and she observed their work with an unpleasant expression of impatience.

Lewis looked hurt. "We only just started this morning."

"Be that as it may, it's made the front of the evening paper." She waved the offending article in front of them. It sported a very lurid, very gruesome, full-color photo of the dead man. "_A Real Zoo Story_," the headline read.

"Zoo Story?" Lewis didn't get the meaning of the title.

"_The Zoo Story_ is a play by Edward Albee, Sir. There's a bloody and rather shocking death at the end. Though it's nothing like this, I must say."

Lewis gave him one of those _I'm really glad I have no idea what you're talking about_ looks.

"Boys?" Innocent retook control of the conversation and their attention. She pierced them with her eyes. "_Solve this_." Then she spun on her heel and left the room.

Lewis rolled his eyes at her departing back, then turned to his sergeant. "Any ideas?"

"Yeah, one or two. But they're a bit, erm . . . out there."

The inspector shook his head and sighed. "If that's the best we can do, let's have them. This entire case is 'out there.'" He slumped resignedly toward their office.

When they found their respective desks, he looked the younger man in the eye. "Well?"

Hathaway swallowed. He'd always had a problem with expressing himself in front of others, but he was by now comfortable enough with Inspector Lewis to speak his mind if he steeled himself.

"I've been doing some research into pagan rituals. This method of killing, Sir. It's called a 'blood eagle' and it's done as a sacrifice to the Norse god Odin."

Lewis blinked only once. "That's consistent with what Laur—er, Doctor Hobson said, right? A pagan rite?"

"Correct. Now, it turns out that Baldwin, our victim, was a member of a religious group called the Odinist League. Neo-pagans, who worship the ancient Norse gods. There are branches all over the UK."

He smiled at the gaping expression Lewis provided, along with the inspector's question. "_Baldwin was a member of this group?_"

Hathaway couldn't hide the smugness from his expression. Or perhaps it was only the unfortunate shape of his face. "Yup. And so are Freyja Godwin, Fred Godwin, and George Sutter, among others."

Nor could Hathaway stop the smile that was triggered by the spreading satisfaction on his boss's face. And he could almost imagine the quiet _Well done, James!_ But he knew he was not going to hear that, and the younger man's smile faded as Lewis continued his questions with no praise forthcoming.

"So . . . is there any connection between Baldwin's membership in this, erm, _League_, and his death?"

James shook his head. "I don't know that yet, Sir."

"I guess your work is cut out for you, then, isn't it?" Lewis considered Hathaway's dismay for a while, then stood. "Ah, g'wan, I'll see you tomorrow, eh?" He gathered his things.

"G'night, Sir." James grinned at the implied permission to quit for the night.


	4. Monday

But they were called back to the Wildlife Park early the next morning. Two people had been found dead in the wolf enclosure; they were, as Laura put it,

"Undoubtedly killed by the wolves as prey." She looked from one detective to the other. "But not at the same time. The woman—" she gestured to one covered corpse—"died before midnight, about half ten or eleven at night. The man—" again, gesturing—"only about five hours ago, around three this morning."

She watched as Lewis and Hathaway shared a look of consternation. Then she inhaled, put a hand on Lewis's arm, and spoke quietly. "These aren't murders, technically. The victims apparently entered the animals' enclosure and were killed by predators doing what is natural for them. SOCOs have found nothing to indicate any third party acted here."

Lewis gave her one of his crooked looks. "And you believe that?"

She couldn't stop a small grin. "Why not? But I expect that _you_ don't."

He held her gaze for much longer than was necessary, and his expression softened the longer he looked.

"Laura, when this is over, I—" But his words were cut off by Hathaway's exclamation.

"That big one—the pack leader—isn't he supposed to be tied up?"

Lewis's attention snapped to the far side of the wolf enclosure. The victims' bodies had been cordoned off earlier by the police team and the pack was kept separate, secured in a small, adjacent enclosure usually used for isolating individuals from the rest of the pack. Now as he looked, Lewis could see Greyback galloping free with the other wolves.

Lewis turned to the nearest keeper. "Who untied Greyback and when?"

The keeper fidgeted, avoiding eye contact and minimizing his cooperation. "Erm, maybe you should speak with the curator about that. It'd be his decision." He scanned the area.

Lewis peered at him. "Oh, has Mister Battle been released from hospital?" Lewis stared at the keeper, whose lips tightened. "It's some kind of cock-up, isn't it?"

The keeper looked away.

"I've got two suspicious deaths in your wolf pen, Sir. Now, I suggest you answer my questions or you could find yourself facing a charge of interfering with police inquiries."

Lewis's vehemence at last collapsed the man's defenses.

"Look, the wolves were like this when we came in this morning, right? Greyback was already untied when we got 'ere. And if Mister Battle didn't do it, then those infiltrators 'ere must have done it. Probably PETA or summat, them. Got 'em all worked up, like. Normally, they're as docile as dogs. Never known 'em to go after anything bigger'n a squirrel."

"So, it's your theory that these two people got into the wolf enclosure and deliberately untied the leader of the pack, and the pack then commenced attacking the two humans."

"Aye, that'd be the _theory_. Got what they deserved, if y'ask me."

The two detectives considered this, looking at each other to see if each judged it likely that either of the victims would have untied the largest member of the pack of wolves that caused their demise.

"Okay, thanks," was Hathaway's terse dismissal.

As the keeper moved off, Hathaway snorted in Lewis's direction, shaking his head. "So, one or both of the victims untied this wolf?"

Lewis shook his head, too. "How else did he get free? The rope wasn't broken or chewed through."

"Knots worked loose?"

"Even if they had, he was still shut in that small pen. Someone did this. Whether it was one or both of the victims, or some third person who either knew or didn't know these two victims were in there, well . . ." Lewis trailed off.

Hathaway exhaled. Lewis was right. They had to find out what had happened before they could know if there was a human hand behind these killings. They both turned their gaze toward the canid enclosure. The corpses had been removed at last, and the wolves had been released into the larger, free-range area. But the animals weren't wandering freely; instead, they loped as a single unit near the edge of the area where the bodies had been found—heads low, tongues lolling, shoulders slouched, eyes avoiding contact with others: in short, looking as guilty as a mob of teenagers caught out after curfew. But, like delinquents of that nature, they hadn't necessarily committed any crimes.

Hathaway touched Lewis's sleeve, steering him back toward their car. "Animals, eh?"

* * *

The post-mortem report shed very little light on the matter. The two victims were Manny and Janet Solis, brother and sister. The blood patterns from the scene indicated that Janet had been in Greyback's small enclosure, presumably untying him, when she was attacked late Sunday night. Manny must have hid from the wolves or defended himself somehow, for some reason either unable or unwilling to leave the enclosure, but eventually they found him and killed him. The report stated the bodies had been severely dismembered, with much of the muscle mass "not recovered."

"Eaten." Laura's curt explanation. "Sorry I can't provide any evidentiary support for the theory of intervention by a third human. This looks like a classic case of what we call 'death by misadventure.'"

Lewis exhaled, swinging his head slowly from side to side. He'd seen how many cases initially pegged as "death by misadventure" turn into murder convictions? And some that should have done, but didn't. Those cases always aged him, he thought.

"But Robbie—" Laura touched his sleeve. "You should see this." She pointed to the neck of Manny Solis.

Lewis bent forward and saw a black bird tattoo identical to that found on the neck of Joseph Baldwin.

"And she has one, too." Doctor Hobson pointed to the other victim's neck, and Lewis could see Janet Solis had the same tattoo.

He shot a look at Hathaway, but said nothing.

* * *

"Sir?"

Hathaway's tone made the inspector snap his head up sharply with an inquisitive grunt.

"The Solis siblings were also members of the local branch of the Odinist League."

"Oh, aye?" Lewis knew instinctively that there was more that Hathaway was going to tell him.

"There has been some kind of a power struggle going on there recently. George Sutter . . ."

"The snake keeper?"

Hathaway suppressed a shudder. "That's the one. He wants to be Chief Druid of the local branch of the OL."

"_OL_—Odinist League?"

Hathaway ducked his head in recognition of his boss's correct answer, and then continued. "But a chap named Patrick O'Dan is currently the leader, and he seems to have most of the popular support, though a certain Jeremy Thorn might be a close competitor, apparently."

Lewis squinted at him for nearly a minute. Hathaway gave a short nod, as though he were expecting the inspector's immediate agreement. "It's an obvious motive, Sir," he said with impatience.

Lewis shook his head in puzzlement. "What the bloody hell is this Odinist League, Sergeant? Are you saying these league members were killed for _religious_ reasons? And what the bloody hell does a Chief Druid _do_, anyway?"

Hathaway gaped at his boss. He hadn't realized how frustrated Lewis was becoming, but that came through loud and clear in his tone.

"Ah, sorry, Sir." James at last saw where Lewis had gotten stuck. "Well, I don't know exactly. Whether it's largely a social group or whether they actually practice rituals used by the ancient Norse . . ."

Lewis gave him one of those squint-eyed looks he called on whenever religion seemed to be getting out of hand. "But . . . neither Sutter nor this O'Dan character have any apparent connection to the murder victim or the Solis siblings?"

Hathaway almost leapt out of his chair. "Of _course_ they do! They're all in the same group! The Odinist League is the connection!"

Robbie set a heavy hand on his sergeant's shoulder. "That's fine, James. Now find us a reason why this connection is relevant to Baldwin's murder." He sighed deeply. "Or to the deaths of Manny and Janet Solis, any one will do. Why would _they_ be killed if they're not part of this power struggle you think is going on?"

Hathaway was not to be calmed. "It's completely relevant—Baldwin was killed in the manner of Norse myth. Then the Solis siblings are killed, and their connection to Baldwin is a cult that adheres to Norse myth!" He looked as though Lewis should, given this information, be able to put it all together with ease. "The raven tattoo—that's very symbolic to them. I guarantee there's a connection."

The senior officer tugged at his ear and scrunched up his face. "And?" He spoke quietly. After a pause, he continued even more quietly. "You know how it is, Sergeant. Theories are fine, especially this early in the game. But don't let yourself get sucked into thinking there's no other possible explanation, okay?"

Having imparted the wisdom of his experience, Lewis sat back in his chair, feeling a bit regretful at having been so snappish. But he'd seen Inspector Morse do the same thing so many times in the past: grab hold of a single piece of information and rely on it completely, without really understanding the context—sometimes while deliberately ignoring the context. Yes, Lewis had plenty of experience dealing with theories that blew up in his face.

But he had to admit to himself that he found the Odinist League theory seductive. It was weird enough to just possibly be true, as had indeed been the solution to several of the cases he had helped Morse with when he was a sergeant. Even if it turned out to be a red herring, the willingness to consider outliers was often what helped them solve the case.

Hathaway saw the slight upturn of the corners of Lewis's mouth and knew then that he was not being told off for his ideas, but only being warned not to scrawl them all over the big, white board in the incident room. He suppressed his own smile and turned back to his computer.

A few clicks later, he cocked his head in curiosity. "Sir?"

Lewis grunted an acknowledgement.

"O'Dan was in the news a few years back." Lewis glanced up, eyebrows arched, waiting for the rest. "Apparently he stabbed and then hung himself."

"What, attempted suicide?"

"Not exactly. Said he wanted to learn from the experience. Hung for quite some time before he was found and cut down."

Lewis frowned. "Aw, these religious types are all nutters, aren't they?"

Hathaway cocked his head, a sarcastic smile on his lips. "If you say so, Sir."

* * *

They returned to the wildlife park later that day. Lewis suggested they question the evening shift of keepers and caretakers and see for themselves what the demeanor of the wolf pack was like. The park was only a few minutes from closing and nearly all the visitors had left. It was very quiet and, in a way, peaceful as the sun sank toward the horizon, casting a rosy glow over everything.

Hathaway saw Freyja Godwin, and he waved to her.

"Go on, go talk to her." Lewis's tone was open to interpretation as to whether he thought James would be conducting a professional interview or questioning her about more personal matters. When Lewis saw his sergeant's accusing expression, his face turned to all innocence.

"Well? Ask her about this league thing, right?"

Hathaway sloped off in Freyja's direction, picking up speed to a slow jog when she stopped and smiled at his approach. Lewis turned away, not wanting to intrude, and wandered toward the wolf enclosure. He stopped in surprise when he saw Tyrone Battle standing by the fence and gazing at the wolf pack as they ran in a repetitive circuit of the perimeter. His damaged wrist was encased in plaster.

"You missed the excitement here this morning, Mister Battle."

Battle frowned. "I heard about it. All over the news, wunnit?"

Lewis paused before pressing on. "Ever have problems like this before, with these animals?"

The curator looked outraged. "Of course not! Most of the time, we don't have to worry about members of the public sneaking in here after hours and endangering themselves _and the animals_ by invading places they clearly are not meant to be!"

"So . . . why now? One of your keepers said these animals are like dogs, so why attack these two people? Attack and kill, even?"

His question drew a sigh. "I don't know, Inspector. Even with two strangers in their territory, the wolfpack I know wouldn't attack. Maybe the earthquake the other day set them on edge." He threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. But Lewis's instinct was nagging him that Battle knew more than he was letting on. Nonetheless, he changed the topic.

"How's the wrist?"

Battle frowned. "The quack says it's not badly torn but that a critical nerve was severed. In all likelihood I'll lose not the hand but the use of it."

"Why did you put your hand in the wolf's mouth?" Lewis was right in thinking he already knew the answer.

"He behaves better when I show him I trust him. It's the only way he would hold still long enough to be bound. He's a wily old sod."

* * *

Back at the office, they were adding notes to the board. Circumspect notes—not everything was made a matter of record.

Lewis jotted a bit about Battle's condition, then turned to his sergeant. "He's a nutter, that man."

James nodded sagely.

"Learn anything from your redhead?"

Hathaway almost answered defensively, but he caught a glimpse of Lewis's suppressed smile and realized that was expected of him. So instead, just to be contrary, he answered mildly.

"She assured me the league is just a harmless hobby, a gathering of aficionados of Norse mythology. And she gave me some basic information about the group. My sense is that, despite her waving me off, they all take it very seriously. And I think she has a crush on me."

He added the last in such an offhand manner that Lewis almost missed it. Then, when he realized what James had said, Robbie merely grinned. "Well done." He deliberately left his praise open to interpretation.

Smiling to himself, Robbie noticed that James swiveled back to his computer. _No, not his computer_, the inspector realized, with surprise. James was discreetly holding a small book in his lap. Lewis peered at it, but couldn't see anything from where he was. He knew well enough to bide his time.


	5. Tuesday

It was not without considerable dismay that Inspector Lewis and Sergeant Hathaway appeared at the gates of the Coventry Wildlife Park early on Tuesday morning, ducking under a new ribbon of crime scene tape. Yet another human had fallen victim to an animal, and the zoo was officially closed for the day. As they approached the cluster of SOCOs, Lewis's forehead deepened into a frown.

"Battle." He stared at the mutilated corpse.

"That's correct, Lewis. And while you're doing so well, would you like to tell our viewers at home what killed him?" Doctor Hobson's winning smile momentarily distracted Robbie and there was an awkward pause before he realized he was expected to answer. To cover his embarrassment, he cleared his throat and peered at the body with far too much intensity while Hathaway snorted in amusement and Laura couldn't keep from cracking a grin.

Lewis blew out his cheeks. "Some sort of carnivore." He looked around. The body lay not in an animal's enclosure but in the public area, just outside the staff door to the reptile house, which stood slightly ajar.

Lewis's eyes narrowed. "Was the door like that?"

Laura swiveled her head around to where he was staring. She frowned. "SOCOs wouldn't have moved it, they're still photographing."

"Who found the body?"

"The groundskeeper over there." She frowned more deeply. "Robbie . . . ?"

He snapped his eyes toward her, questioningly.

"You haven't answered my question yet. About what killed him."

The weight of the deaths from the past few days suddenly weighed heavily on Lewis, and his temper—so rarely seen—flared out of control. "Laura—" his tone was fraught with exasperation "—_can't you just tell me?_"

Hathaway's glance shot between the two in alarm. Lewis, as far as he knew, had almost never raised his voice at Hobson. But she deflected the inspector's tone, averting her eyes.

"I'm not certain until we get our lab results, of course, but my number-one suspect is the dog." She nodded her head toward the fenced run where Harmer sat quietly, watching the proceedings with interest.

Lewis dropped his eyes—a concession to having overreacted—and then studied the dog.

"Harmer—he has the run of the reptile house at night, Freyja told me." Hathaway spoke quietly.

"Oh, aye?"

Hathaway only nodded once in response. But it was enough to stir Lewis's grey matter.

"So . . . how did he get back in his run without anyone noticing the open door and the dead body in the way?"

James cocked his index finger at his superior officer. _Bingo_.

* * *

But as they collated the various bits of information that were new that day, they were no closer to resolving any of the recent deaths. Lewis sighed wearily as he jotted down the information that each of their victims had a raven tattoo. _So what?_ he couldn't help thinking. Not likely someone was killing people because of their body ornamentation.

"More coffee, Sir?" Hathaway asked, as he collected his own mug from the desktop.

Distractedly, Lewis blinked, then said in response, "Ehh, no thanks, Hathaway. I think I'm gonna go talk to this Odinist League meself. You go on with your reading." He gestured toward the small book that Hathaway thought he had kept so well concealed. Lewis had managed a peek at the title the last time James had gone for coffee: _Poetic Edda_. He granted James a half smile. "Learnin' anything?"

Hathaway scowled. "As a matter of fact, Sir, I am. I—" But Lewis cut him off.

"Tell me next time, Sergeant." And he headed out to conduct his interviews.

Hathaway pondered how unfair it was that Lewis could control not only the murder investigation but even their conversation. The man certainly seemed far short of happy these days. Annoyed, he wandered into the incident room and stared at the white board, willing it to inspire him.

"They're not murders, Sergeant. You know that." James turned in response to the low, almost purring, female voice. DCS Innocent. _Purring? Or was that growling?_

He cocked his head as though awaiting further instruction. And, indeed, it was forthcoming.

"Except for Baldwin, these deaths were all the result of animals hunting prey, as is their instinct. Am I right?"

Hathaway's eyes shifted rapidly back and forth between the board and his superior officer. "Um—"

"And as such, Sergeant, they are not murders but merely deaths by misadventure. We don't need to keep four files open when there has been only the one murder."

"Um—"

"Close them, James, they're _not_ cases." She glared darkly. "They're only mortality statistics." Huffing audibly, she turned on her heel to leave.

"Ma'am, the thing is . . ." Hathaway's brain was whirling, trying to buy time so he and Lewis could fill in the blanks. The cases _had_ to be related!

"_What_, Hathaway?"

He cleared his throat to help make his voice sound more confident. "Someone must have helped those animals, Ma'am. The dog had been put back in his kennel. Whoever did that would have seen the body on the steps of the . . . exhibit building." He couldn't bring himself to say _reptile house_. "And someone untied Greyback Sunday night. Now, it _might_ have been the Solis siblings, but we've no proof either way on that. Certainly _they_ had nothing to do with Tyrone Battle's death."

She furrowed her brow. Hathaway felt a little surge at the sign that she was, in fact, listening to him.

"Inspector Lewis is where?"

"He's looking into a religious society that all the victims belonged to."

"_Religious society?_ Wouldn't that be more your forte?"

James cleared his throat again. "Erm, it might just be a social club, we're not sure at this point."

She snorted. "As I've just said, wouldn't that be more your forte?"

Hathaway was about to answer seriously when he caught the hint of a smirk on her face.

"You know Inspector Lewis, Ma'am. He likes to stretch himself." He mirrored her expression, and won her over.

"Alright, you have until Thursday morning. If there's nothing more on the animal-related deaths, close them. Understood?" The humor had gone from her eyes.

"Ma'am." Hathaway almost clicked his heels together.

* * *

Lewis sat heavily behind the wheel of his car and sighed. He scanned his notepad. Precious little information was there. Names, of course: Patrick O'Dan, Chief Druid of the Odinist League; Jeremy Thorn, second in command. His impressions of them: O'Dan being in a rush and clearly feeling above all this boring detail being asked by a boring copper, and running off to some important meeting as soon as he found a break in the questioning. And Thorn, the hot-headed temper stereotypical of a redhead, railing at the inability of the police to solve Joe Baldwin's murder, as though it was perfectly obvious to the average schoolboy. And then there was George Sutter, wanting to be in charge instead, but why? _Why?_ He hadn't been present, and so the question remained unanswered.

Lewis reread what he'd written, O'Dan's and Thorn's responses to one of his questions: _Being Chief Druid was an honor,_ they had said, _and it would help a man get into Valhalla when he died_. But Sutter was undeserving, they were certain of that; he lacked the divine right the other two men held, though they could not—or _would not_—explain why that was so.

"_Bollocks!_" Robbie surprised himself by exclaiming aloud. But having done so once, he continued to consult with himself audibly. He realized he needed the outlet, his fingers had already dented his palms with clenching. "They're hiding something, the pair of them. They have to be." He shook his head. "_Valhalla_. Bollocks." He wished Hathaway was there to parry with his own ideas.

He tried James's mobile but was shifted to voice mail. "Yeah, Hathaway, give me a bell when you get this, okay? I need to see what you think about the Odinists." He stared balefully at his mobile when he finished, as though it was conspiring to keep him from contacting his sergeant. "_Bollocks!_"

* * *

James was back at the wildlife park, which remained closed to the public. However, the animals still needed care, and keepers were apparent at nearly every turn. James worked his way toward the wolf enclosure, and was satisfied his hunch had been correct: Freyja was there. But she didn't see him at first. Her hair flamed in the sun, and Hathaway couldn't help think how regal was her profile. She was talking to a well-muscled, blond man, whose nose followed the same aquiline arch of his sister's. The man glanced up, then stared hard at the approaching police officer.

James released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Freyja?" A small, twitchy smirk was al he could muster.

Her responding smile was radiant, its warmth washing over him. "James!" Then she turned halfway. "This is my brother, Fred. Fred, this is James Hathaway. We've done our washing together, Saturday last." She beamed as though that explained everything.

"Ah. Saturday last." Fred nodded once. Seeing Hathaway's brow wrinkle in perplexity, he offered an explanation. "The day of the earthquake."

Hathaway blinked. "Right." He couldn't avoid noticing that Fred bore a tattoo of a raven on his neck just below his right ear.

"That tattoo . . ." Hathaway began, gesturing.

Fred frowned in response. The effect was like filling his face with thunder.

Hathaway swallowed, and continued. "All of the people showing up dead here this week had that same tattoo. In my experience, there are very few coincidences in the real world. So I'm asking you: what does it mean?" He pulled himself up to his full height to ask this question, and found to his surprise that he outdid the man by several inches.

Fred glowered, and his eyes were coals, burning into Hathaway.

But there was a gentle touch on James's arm. "It's the black raven of Ragnar. It's a symbol of Norse supremacy. We all have one." Freyja tipped her head, exposing the raven tattoo she also sported on her neck. "See?"

James bent close—closer than he needed to, really—and whispered into her ear. "What does it mean, Freyja? Is this about serving Odin and Thor and all that lot?"

She straightened up, imperious. "Yes. Yes it is." She studied him. "It's the world, y'know. The world and the universe and everything." She exhaled, haughtily.

Hathaway dipped his eyes, acknowledging his gratitude at Freyja's candid answer. "When you say 'we all,' that's the Odinist League you mean?"

"Of course."

He glanced again at the glowering, golden-haired man who continued to maintain a hard expression.

"Erm, Freyja?" He bent low to her ear. "Could we discuss this in private?"

She furrowed her brow until comprehension broke over her face like a sunrise. "Of course!" She turned her gaze toward her brother. "Fred, go make yourself useful, would you?" Her brother stared at her, and she smiled sweetly. "I think perhaps Mister Sutter could use some help in the reptile house."

Fred tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. "I would _love_ to help Sutter with his bloody serpents." He turned on his heel and stalked away, heading toward the gift shop, his back toward the reptile house.

Hathaway snorted, quietly amused at how Freyja bossed her brother around. Then he took both her arms in his grasp and made her face him squarely.

"Now tell me. How serious is this organization?"

She looked straight into his eyes. "We're very serious about what we believe."

He inhaled and held the breath. "Do you know what a blood eagle is?"

She swallowed. "Yes. It's a sacrifice to Odin."

"And on Sunday when we found Joe Baldwin, you recognized he had been killed in that way." He wasn't asking her.

She glanced away. "I . . . I _did_ recognize that. But League members would never do something like that. Life is sacred to us."

"And you're certain that all the League members feel that way?"

She didn't answer him for a while, and they walked together in silence. Hathaway kept from looking at her, not wanting her to feel pressured. Then, a furtive movement by the wolf pen caught his eye. Someone was there.

He stopped walking. "Who's that by the wolves?" He kept his voice low.

She peered at the figure, her eyes flaring in fear at first. But she relaxed when she recognized him.

"That's Patrick O'Dan, he's our Chief Druid."

"Should he be that close to the wolves? Hey, how did he even get in here? The park is closed, isn't it?"

Freyja seemed uninterested. "Well, George Sutter or one of the other keepers might have let him in."

Hathaway's eyes narrowed. "Wolves play a big role in Norse mythology, don't they?"

She set her mouth in a line and folded her arms across her chest. "Wolves play a big role in the legends of any people whose ancestors had to deal with them, Sergeant."

He knew by her use of his rank that the conversation was at an end, and she would volunteer nothing further. "Look, I'm sorry I have to ask so many questions." He touched her arm gently. "I think we're done for today."

She smiled with some warmth, but her body remained clenched. "I know, it's your job. Bloody nuisance. And anyway, I've got to get back to my office . . ."

Hathaway sucked in a quick breath and spoke before he could think too much about what he wanted to say. "Can I see you sometime? When the case is over, I mean?"

She studied him a long time, then shook her head almost imperceptibly. "There's too much going on right now, James. I . . . I can't be certain what's going to happen. Maybe. As you said, maybe when the case is over." She flashed him a smile, then walked away.

Hathaway watched her until she disappeared into a building. Then he turned his attention discreetly to Patrick O'Dan, who loitered by the wolves for quite some time. Hathaway was unable to figure out what the man was doing there. At last he approached, showed his warrant card, and said he wanted to ask a few questions.

O'Dan assumed the defensive attitude James expected.

"These people are my _friends_, Sergeant; naturally, I am concerned about what happens to them. The wolves—well, the wolves are the ancient enemy, are they not?"

"Meaning what, exactly, Mister O'Dan?"

Hathaway was met with a wall of silence.

He attacked that defense with a single word: "Ragnarök."

He spoke the word quietly, but he knew O'Dan had heard him by the way the man's nostrils flared. And he pressed on. "This is it, isn't it? The big showdown between the giants and gods. Baldr, Sól, Máni, Týr, already dead. Let's see, Baldr, that's Baldwin; first to go. Sól, Sunday is named for her, right? As in Janet Solis, who died on Sunday? And Máni, that's Monday: Manny Solis, her brother, died on Monday. Sól and Máni were killed by wolves, right? At least according to the version I've read."

Hathaway stared at O'Dan, but the man's face was set in stone. He pressed on, convinced that eventually, the façade would crack.

"Týr is Tuesday's namesake: Tyrone Battle. We know what happened to him. He sacrificed his right hand so that the wolf Fenrir could be bound in unbreakable ribbon. Týr was killed by Garmr, the guard dog of Hel. Well, if you ask me, there's nothing closer to Hell than a reptile house that temporarily houses spiders. And Harmer was its guard dog."

He checked O'Dan to see if he was listening. _Oh, yes_. Not talking, but listening. James was certain of that.

"Wednesday, that's Wodan's Day. Or should I say Odin's day? O'Dan's day? Are you next, Mister O'Dan_? How do you die?_"

O'Dan cocked an eyebrow and spoke at last, quietly and icily calm. "You've been reading too many bedtime stories, Sergeant. I'm familiar with the legends, of course, but I'm not certain what you're proposing here. Ancient Norse gods coming back to life and living here in Oxford?" He shook his head incredulously. "Anything else you want to ask me about? Grimm's fairy tales?" He asked with sneering amusement.

* * *

"You're awfully quiet, Sergeant. No joy with your redhead?" Lewis sipped his pint of ale thoughtfully.

They were sitting in the garden of the Trout, James having a go at finishing off the rest of his packet of cigarettes. He merely snorted at Lewis's teasing.

Lewis studied the younger man closely and chewed his bottom lip. _He's suffered some kind of a setback, I can tell that much_.

"So what is it you've learned from that book that you were so eager to tell me about earlier?"

Hathaway glanced up, checking to see if he was still being wound up. When he saw Lewis was serious, he shook his head. "Nah, it's nothing. Just old Norse myths and legends. Some interesting coincidences, that's all."

James had realized how silly it all sounded when O'Dan laid out the theory. He'd been watching too much television, he told himself. No way would he open himself up to his boss's scoffing.

Robbie wasn't buying James's brush-off, but he also wasn't about to let his sergeant know that he was so concerned. He sighed. "I don't believe in coincidences."

"You don't believe in God, either, or so you tell me. Doesn't mean He doesn't exist."

"That's good enough for other people, maybe. But not for me." It wasn't clear whether Lewis was referring to belief in coincidences, God, or both.

Before Hathaway could answer, a mobile chirped, and Lewis dove for his pocket. He checked the number and put the unit to his ear. "Hello, Doctor, have something for us?"

* * *

"So, that's it, really. Although the body is pretty torn up, other than blood, there's almost none of it missing. It was a vicious attack, but unlike the wolves, he didn't see the victim as his next meal."

Lewis shrugged. "He's a guard dog. No doubt he's trained to attack intruders."

She nodded in agreement, then frowned slightly. "From where I'm sitting, Robbie, it's just another animal attack." Laura arched her eyebrows apologetically. "Sorry I can't make it more exciting."

Lewis frowned in frustration. "Someone had to put the dog in his kennel afterwards. So at the very least, someone isn't telling us everything they know."

She pursed her lips. "Turning this into murder is _your_ job. I can't do it for you, not for any of these deaths except the first one." Her eyes clouded as she watched Robbie mentally struggle with the cases. _He used to be such a happy man_, she thought.


	6. Wednesday

Lewis groaned as his mobile dragged him to consciousness. He'd been having a lovely dream, though he couldn't remember the slightest bit of it. All that remained in his memory was a sense of satiation and the scent of antibacterial soap, the kind used by doctors. _And pathologists_, he thought. But further musings were cut off by the click of his phone.

"Yeah, Lewis."

He groaned again, got the details, rang off, and started to get dressed. _Not another one_.

* * *

The zoo employees were looking rather glum and not very much shocked by the occurrence of a fifth overnight slaying.

"It's O'Dan, of course." Hathaway met Lewis as he was getting out of his car.

Lewis snapped his eyes on his sergeant. "_Of course_?"

Hathaway shook his head as though that would retract the words he hadn't meant to say. "I mean . . ." Lewis's eyes narrowed at his stammering. "Of course, it's another member of the Odinist League."

"Ah." Lewis pursed his lips skeptically. "Of course."

Doctor Hobson was writing something down as they approached, and they waited quietly until she was done. When she looked up, her face fell, and she nodded toward her left. "There's your murderer."

Greyback. He was festooned with Kevlar lines but they weren't tied to anything, and so he was in fact not at all restrained.

"Keepers say they found him like that this morning. O'Dan must have been trying to tie him back up."

Lewis scowled. "But why bother when he's already locked up safely in his pen?" He shook his head slowly, uncomprehending. "What was O'Dan playing at?"

Hathaway let out a very long breath. "Sir . . . I have a theory. Only, you have to promise not to laugh."

Robbie's eyes shifted from James to Laura and back again. "Shall we finish up here and you can tell me back at the office?"

"That'd be fine, Sir."

Lewis looked around, saw George Sutter staring at the corpse, and headed off in that direction without another word. Hathaway was about to join him, but a gentle touch on his arm restrained him.

"James?" It was Freyja. "I think we need to talk." She took him by the arm and steered him away from the death scene. They walked for quite a while before she spoke again.

"George Sutter. You know he's interested in being Chief Druid of the Odinist League."

Hathaway merely nodded in reply.

"Well, he's also interested in me."

When she said no more, Hathaway sought an explanation. "What, you mean from a romantic point of view?"

She snorted at this as though it was bordering on preposterous. "No, I'd have to say from a genetic point of view."

She regarded his responding smirk disdainfully. "Think what you like. Several of the members of the League, including myself and my brother, have actually traced our ancestry to the ancient Norse gods. Sutter has not been so fortunate. I believe he would like to . . . how can I say this? Improve his descendants' gene pool?"

James exhaled sharply. "Is that what you _reproductive specialists_ call it?"

She snorted crossly. "That's about it, yes. He finds me a _genetically valuable individual_. Fred would kill him if he came anywhere near me."

The sergeant's gaze was penetrating. "Oh, really?"

She gasped involuntarily. "I don't mean—Well, you mustn't think Fred had anything to do with this!"

He turned her toward him then, holding her by both arms. "Who's behind all this, Freyja?"

She straightened and peered down her nose at him. For an instant, Hathaway could almost see the Norse divinity in her blood. Then he blinked, and the illusion had passed.

"You wouldn't understand."

He closed his eyes for an instant, and willed himself to go down the path that lay open to him. "Is this Ragnarök?"

She gasped. "How do you know about that?" Her eyes were huge.

"I can read, can't I? _The Edda_. Everything is falling into place. But . . . your League members, you're not the Norse gods! This is just coincidence feeding an illusion. You can stop this any time."

Her eyes were watering. "Do you really think so?" Doubt filled her face.

"You're worried about Fred, aren't you? The goddess Freyja survived Ragnarök but her brother Frey was killed by the fire giant, Surtr, wasn't he?" He pulled her close to him, and he could feel her heart beating like a bird's against his body. "You think that Sutter will try to kill Fred? Because of the legend?"

When she spoke, her sobs were muffled. "It's because of the earthquake, don't you see? There was the bloody earthquake. That started it all."

He squeezed her against himself. "Shh, it'll be okay. It's just a legend, it's not real, not here, and not now."

* * *

Lewis stalked away from George Sutter, even more frustrated than he had been when he walked in. The man refused to give a straight answer, refused to behave in any way but haughtily superior, and when Lewis tried to impress on him the force of the law, he responded by impressing on Lewis the force of his enormous physical presence.

"Mister Sutter, we have not concluded our conversation." This was the best he could do. _Feeble, Lewis_, he scolded himself. _Not the least bit intimidating._

He headed back to the car, and on the way, he saw Freyja clinging to Hathaway. His rising smirk was stifled by something stronger that rose up unexpectedly out of his heart—_They have something precious, don't you dare mock it!_ He choked from the force of that thought, and at the one that came immediately afterward: that his own life lacked something that precious. His breath caught in his throat and he realized he was sweating, his heart pounding as he watched their hands entwine. After they walked beyond his view, he sat for a full five minutes in his car, staring blankly at the windscreen, alarmed by the potency of his own need.

* * *

The uncomfortable silence in their office was so palpable that even DCS Innocent stayed away. Lewis pecked at his computer, and Hathaway flipped through his _Poetic Edda_ while cross-checking it with online resources and their own case files. Robbie wanted to open the conversation, but he was floundering, being both cross at and envious of having seen James and Freyja clinging to each other. He was having more than the usual trouble sorting—_or should that be 'ignoring'?_—his feelings.

Then of course they both started to speak at the same time:

"Sir—" "James—"

And Lewis gave in by surrendering first to their simultaneous awkwardness. "Sorry, go ahead." When Hathaway merely stared, Lewis continued. "James, things have been a bit strained these past few days, right? I know you have some theory about this entire series of deaths. I, myself, have none. So, please." He sighed heavily. "What is it you think you know?"

Hathaway stared for a very long time at a dead spider in a dusty corner under Lewis's desk.

"Ragnarök is what Wagner called the 'Twilight of the gods.' The jötnar—they're the giants—waged war on the gods and won. It began with an earthquake, three roosters crowing, and a dog howling."

Lewis did a double-take. "Exactly what happened on Saturday when you were with Freyja at the laundromat. No wonder she was frightened."

Hathaway nodded in agreement and continued. "Each person who has died so far, except for Joseph Baldwin, died in the manner of a Norse god with a similar name, and each, except for Baldwin, died on the day named for that god."

He saw that Lewis might not be following him quite as fast as he was instructing. "Look."

He led the way to the incident room and pointed to the corresponding places on the white board.

"Janet Solis. Died Sunday, which is named for Sól, a goddess who is killed by a wolf at Ragnarök. Monday, named for Máni, same fate. Tuesday, named for Týr, he was killed by Garmr the guard dog of Hel. Wednesday named for Wodan, also known as Odin, killed by the great wolf Fenrir."

James could tell Lewis had caught up now.

"Where does the name 'Greyback' fit in?" Lewis asked.

"Well, I'm not certain but he might be named for a werewolf in the Harry Potter stories—full name, Fenrir Greyback."

Lewis exhaled, shaking his head.

Seeing his boss was not yet completely on board, James continued.

"At the time the Ragnarök is about to begin, Fenrir is bound up by the magical ribbon made of six very rare things." Here, James consulted a second book he had been keeping under some papers on his desk: _The Prose Edda_. And he read: "the sound of a cat's footfall, hairs of a maiden's beard, a mountain's roots, a bear's dreams, a fish's breath, and a bird's spittle. But he broke free at the start of the great battle between the giants and the gods."

"Blimey!"

"Fenrir is suspicious when they bring this ribbon out to bind him, because how can anyone break a thing like that? And he refuses to be tied unless someone shows him enough trust to put a hand into his mouth. So the person who steps forward is—"

"Týr." Lewis finished. "Only he got bitten, am I right?"

"Yup."

"So . . . O'Dan was trying to tie Greyback up again to stop all the rest from happening?"

"Could be."

"Yeah, why not?" Lewis's face darkened further. "Well, what _is_ the rest, Hathaway? Who's on for Thursday?"

"That would be Thor. He dies after being bitten by the Midgard serpent, the huge, poisonous snake that encircles the human earth." James clearly found this a most repellant way to die.

"Thor? Jeremy Thorn? And Friday is . . . Freyja?"

Hathaway was shaking his head. "No, Freyja survives. But her brother Frey doesn't. Most of the gods don't, in fact. It's basically the end of the world for them. Wagner's _Götterdämmerung_."

The older man nodded slowly in recognition and thought some more. "Sutter dies on Saturday?"

Hathaway paused. "Saturday's not named for a Norse god. It's just . . ." he flipped through his notepad, then stared at the result. "_Washing day_."

Lewis closed his mouth firmly with a loud, nasal exhale, tipping his head in recognition of the irony. "A'course."

They both stared silently at the board for some time.

"_Sutter doesn't die_," Hathaway said at last. "Does that mean he's behind all this?"

Lewis's eyes narrowed. "Freyja doesn't die either, Sergeant. You just said. Is _she_ behind all this?"

Hathaway frowned. "Why would she want any of these people dead? Can you answer that?" His tone was suddenly hostile.

Lewis refused to rise to the bait. "Can you be certain she wouldn't? How much do you know of her, other than what she herself has told you?" His voice was quiet. _Patient? or ominous?_ Hathaway couldn't tell, and he only glared in response.

"She's a strong woman, James. She's capable of quite a lot."

"She wouldn't do this!"

"Men have said that before about women who stuck the knife in or pulled the trigger anyway. I've seen it far too many times." His voice was tinged with sadness.

Hathaway chewed on his bottom lip, unable to speak without snarling. "I need a smoke." He got up. "If you'll excuse me."

Lewis waved him out of the room. He had plenty to think about without his moody sergeant intruding on his thoughts. He stared at the photo of George Sutter. _What do you know, you old snake-man?_

"And how are we progressing?"

Lewis yerked his head around, startled by the question.

"Ma'am?"

"Any evidence these killings—" she waved at the board, bypassing the postings about Baldwin—"are due to any third person interference?"

Lewis kept his mouth tight. "We're getting there."

Jean knew her officers well enough by now to know this was basically a negative answer.

"Lew-wis." The way she dragged out his name gave him a weird sense of déjà vu.

He closed his eyes against her admonition. "We're _getting there_, Ma'am." He opened his eyes and faced her. "Really." Then he walked out of the room, leaving her staring after him, open-mouthed.

Robbie returned to the office and shut the door behind him. _Was this really some weird, mythological Armageddon?_ Unable to make any sense of anything, he pulled out his mobile and punched a few buttons. He wasn't even sure why he was calling.

"Hi, Robbie, what's up?" Hobson's pleasant voice was a reassurance that he was doing the right thing.

"Laura, I need your thoughts on something. Do you have time for a drink?"

* * *

Hathaway threw down the end of his cigarette. He was still angry, too angry to go back and face his boss. Much of his irritation stemmed from knowing that Lewis was right—he really didn't know much about Freyja that he could verify. Women could be wily, he'd seen that plenty of times in his line of work. With sudden determination, he fished his car keys out of his pocket and headed for his vehicle. But when he sat behind the wheel, his resolve drained away. He couldn't go charging at her, confronting her like she'd lied to him. He slammed his palms against the steering wheel.

At last, collecting himself, he started the motor and pointed the car toward the wildlife park. He made a quick stop at a corner shop for another packet of cigarettes, and just as he got back in the car, his mobile rang. _Freyja_. He inhaled, and answered.

"James, I'm at the zoo. Jeremy Thorn is here, talking to George Sutter. I think they're having some sort of argument, they're both waving their arms a lot. But I don't want to get too close and I can't overhear them.

"I'm already on my way there, Freyja. I need to talk to you."

His tone gave her a moment's pause. "Fine, James. That's fine. I'll be by the wolves."

* * *

"More wine?" Lewis held the bottle up, hovering over Laura's glass.

She pursed her lips, then nodded. "Half a glass."

They had decided to make it an early dinner, and Robbie was enjoying himself. Laura had reminded him of other cases he'd worked on where people had interpreted a series of events as some sort of sign from God or the Fates and had taken matters into their own hands, usually with dire, if not fatal, results. It would not be the first time something like this had happened. And she explained that it didn't mean this really was the end of the world or that Norse gods had come to Oxford to wage their final war, but merely that some people _thought_ that, and as a result, they were acting in ways people didn't normally act, including killing each other, setting dangerous animals loose, and climbing into wolves' enclosures.

Lewis nodded, smiling in agreement. "You always set me straight when I can't get me mind around something, Laura."

She smiled warmly in return.

Lewis felt his mobile buzzing in his pocket, but he ignored it. It was the second call he'd ignored, and he was feeling a little guilty. But he was enjoying himself so much, feeling more relaxed than he had in . . . well, in years, really. He didn't want that feeling interrupted or worse, ended, which it would be if the calls were some work matter he needed to attend.

Laura leaned forward conspiratorially, and Robbie felt his pulse quicken. She appeared ready to confide in him.

"I need to use the ladies'," she whispered. "Please excuse me a moment." She squeezed his hand and stood, smiling back at him as she turned away.

He twisted his mouth at the joke he had played on himself. He'd managed to persuade himself she was going to say something more momentous. Well, he should have known better. And as long as she was away from the table . . .

He pulled out his mobile and checked his missed calls. _Hathaway_, both of them, no real surprise. No message left, but James wouldn't, would he? He'd know the signal having come from him would be enough to get Lewis to call back.

He thumbed the button to return the call, and it was picked up after only one ring.

"Well, you're too late now, aren't you, Sir?" Hathaway was careful to throw in the rank, Lewis noted, whenever he wanted to give the illusion of respect.

"Too late for what?"

"Thorn showed up at the zoo, got into a rather blistering row with Sutter."

Lewis frowned. _What was Thorn doing there?_

"Should I come over?"

"No, the zoo's closed by now and I don't know where either of them went." There was an awkward pause while each officer resisted asking the other where he was or what he was doing.

"Erm . . . anything else, Sergeant?"

"Erm . . . no, nothing." More silence. "Think we'll be called in tomorrow for Thorn?"

Lewis blew out his cheeks as Laura returned to the table. "Oh, probably. We'll find out soon enough. G'night."

"G'night, Sir."

Laura could tell that the mood of the evening had shifted. Lewis's mind was firmly lodged on work, and there would be no more light-heartedness from him now. She sat down, accepting the change as the lot of anyone involved with a homicide detective. "I suppose we should drink up and get on home, work calls early tomorrow, doesn't it?"

He smiled ruefully, but gratefully, at her understanding. "Sorry, Laura. I owe you an evening of undivided attention."

She smiled almost shyly at that. "I'll hold you to that, Robbie. I promise."


	7. Thursday

The two detectives were not required to arise early on Thursday morning. The call about Jeremy Thorn's body did not come until nearly 10:00. By that time, Lewis and Hathaway were in a rather unfriendly meeting in the office of Jean Innocent, debating the merits of sustaining a theory of homicide where no evidence supported it. But that puts perhaps too genteel of a tone to it.

"NO! You will _not_ keep these cases open! The families need closure and there is nothing—NOTHING—to support your mad theories of human intervention. I _will_ have my orders obeyed!"

"Ma'am, we're a hairsbreadth away from linking all this up. One more day, I swear!" Lewis hated pleading, but that is what he'd been reduced to. "Just one more day?"

"NO! Didn't I just say 'No'? Is that not clear? You've had over three days to link someone—anyone!—to Janet's death, and not a single clue do you have. And her brother. Do you even have a theory other than the obvious—that they entered the wolf pen of their own free will and simply ignored the danger? DO YOU?"

Lewis glanced at Hathaway and then turned away. "No, we don't, Ma'am."

Hathaway started in consternation. "That's not true; we have the possibility that someone lured them there, told them to enter the pen and assured them they'd be safe."

"_Speculation_, Sergeant, is not the same as evidence. I want these files signed and on my desk by noon."

* * *

And then the call came in. The two detectives exchanged a knowing look and headed for the car park.

They were directed toward the nonpublic area of the reptile house. Hathaway looked uneasily at the lidless eyes glittering behind glass and the bright orange lettering, "VENOMOUS" over the occasional latch. Near where a man lay sprawled on the floor, one of the exhibits bearing such an identification had been left open, the cage empty of its inhabitant.

Laura approached and opened her mouth to speak, but Hathaway provided the explanation.

"Jeremy Thorn, killed by a poisonous snake."

She stared hard at him. "Well, I won't know that for certain until I can run tests, but that's what it looks like, yes." Her eyes narrowed. "You have some inside gen on this death, Sergeant?"

"Just a hunch, Doctor." He flashed a sarcastic smile.

Lewis put a stop to the gamesmanship. "So how did the snake and Mister Thorn come to be in the same place?"

Hathaway jumped in, eyes darting nervously. "And where exactly is the snake right now?"

The pathologist smirked. "You want to take the perpetrator into custody?"

He gave her a withering look.

"It's there. She waved toward a corner, where he could see a large, tan-and-brown patterned coil lying motionless on the concrete floor. His eyes flared in alarm.

"Don't worry, Sergeant. It's dead."

Eyeing the animal suspiciously, Hathaway squatted down next to Lewis, who was studying the blistered and swollen neck of the dead man. "Doesn't look like a very nice way to die," the older man observed.

"Sir?" A PC strode over, his expression stern.

"Harry? What is it?"

"Sutter's nowhere to be found. He's not on the grounds, Sir."

"Find him. Bring him in."

"Sir." The PC hurried off, speaking into his shoulder radio as he went.

"Gotta be him, doesn't it?" Hathaway muttered.

"Maybe not, but he's certainly our number one suspect at this point." Then Lewis's face darkened further. "Let's get some protection on Fred Godwin. Freyja, too, just in case."

"Right." Hathaway straightened, glad for something to do that would take him away from the locus. He didn't need to look far to find Freyja, she was pacing back and forth outside the reptile house, which was now off-limits to anyone but police.

"James!" She fell into his arms, trembling.

"Shh, it'll be okay, we'll find him. Where's Fred?"

"I—I don't know. When he heard Thorn had met with Sutter last night, he went out and I haven't seen him since."

He pushed her away, gently. "I need to call it in. We'll find them both."

* * *

Noon came and went without Innocent making any further noises about closing cases. For over two hours, Lewis interviewed Freyja himself, and was satisfied in the end that Hathaway's instincts about her were reliable. The post mortem results were predictable, adding little more to their knowledge than the facts that Thorn had been bitten by a Gaboon viper, whose two-inch fangs could deliver more venom per bite than any other species of snake (as Laura informed them), and that Thorn had managed to strangle and kill the animal before succumbing to the poison.

"He convulsed, soiled himself, and died from heart failure just a few steps away from the empty snake enclosure." Laura had added, frowning.

By the time nightfall came around, Hathaway was a bundle of nerves despite numerous smoke breaks, clicking his pen incessantly. Lewis was not much better, drumming his fingers on the desk and bouncing his left knee with equal persistence.

Sutter had gone to ground, and Fred likewise had not been seen. Patrols were searching for both and watching their homes as well as the wildlife park, but there were no reports or sightings.

Hathaway blew out his cheeks. "He's waiting for Friday, isn't he?"

Lewis checked his watch. "Not much longer to wait, then," he noted grimly.

James snorted in frustration. "We have to stop him, not _wait_ for him!"

The inspector stared. "Fine, I agree. What's your plan of action?"

Hathaway firmed his mouth. They lacked ideas of what else they could do beside wait.

"Look," Lewis began, knowing James needed to occupy his mind. "How does he die—what's his name? Friday's god?"

"Frey. He gets into a battle with the fire-giant, Surtr." He flipped open the _Poetic Edda_, found what he was looking for, and read:

"_The sun turns black, earth sinks in the sea,_  
"_The hot stars down from heaven are whirled;_  
"_Fierce grows the steam and the life-feeding flame,_  
"_Till fire leaps high about heaven itself._"

Robbie blew out his cheeks. "Impressive."

"That's the _Völuspá_, stanza 57. It's bad for the gods but the earth grows back, golden and beautiful. It's a good thing for humans."

"So . . . he's going to burn Fred in a fire?"

Hathaway thought a moment, and nodded. "I'd say."

"But _where_?"

They jumped up and ran into the incident room to see if anything there would jar loose a few brain cells. But nothing seemed to point to any one place.

Lewis slammed his fist onto a desktop in frustration. "_C'mon_," he growled more to himself than James. Then he turned, a slightly hopeful light in his eyes. "What about the book? What's in there to tell us where this all takes place?"

They hurried back to the office and Hathaway flipped through the pages until he found the Ragnarök prophecy. He shook his head in dismay.

"It doesn't name a specific place. Yggdrasil is mentioned—" he caught Lewis's expression. "It's a huge ash tree, the tree of the world. Has nine levels, from the underworld to the heavens, where the gods live. Its roots reach to three wells, including a holy well."

Lewis chewed his lip, working over this information. "Don't the gods have a home or a temple or something?"

His sergeant furrowed his brow, thinking. "Odin has a hall, Valhalla, where he gathers fallen heroes. You know about that from your Wagner."

"Valhalla . . . Nothing like that around here, is there?"

"Not that I've ever heard." He turned and clicked at his computer. Lewis watched over his shoulder for a while, but nothing was turning up. He sat back down at his own desk, staring at the wall map of Oxford.

Ten minutes later, he leapt up, checking his watch. "How much time have we got? A bit more than an hour? C'mon, we should be in time."

Hathaway jumped up and sprinted after him, saying nothing until he was buckled in the car and Lewis was backing out of his parking space. "Where are we going?"

"Valhalla!" Robbie smiled grimly at his sergeant's look of surprised confusion, and explained. "Holywell Cemetery. Okay, it's just an idea. But it's got the holy well, right? And a few years back there was a zoning flap about it, some developer wanted to build some monstrosity right next to it, and there was a huge public outcry. I'm surprised you don't remember."

But Hathaway did, once his memory had been jogged. "That article that broke the news about the proposed development. _The Valhalla of Oxford_ it called the place." He nodded, recalling the controversy. "Then there was a backlash in the church because they didn't like a Christian burial ground being referred to as a pagan haven." He thought for a moment as Lewis negotiated the streets. "How will we find them?"

"I can't be sure, but I think there are some old garden sheds near the northeast corner. At least, the last time I was there . . ." Lewis trailed off, not wanting to say any more.

Hathaway knew better than to ask his boss what he was doing lurking around an old cemetery. He suspected Lewis spent more time in cemeteries than he would willingly admit to.

When they got to the graveyard, they each grabbed a torch and headed for the gate. But then Lewis stopped. "Wait, we don't want him to know we're here, do we? I mean, he probably will wait until midnight, but if he knows we're stumbling around in the dark looking for him, he might start early."

James shook his head. "There's no way we can see anything in there in the dark. He'll find out we're here as soon as one of us breaks an ankle falling over a headstone. I think we should just make our way to where you think those sheds are as quickly as we can."

The older man could see the sense in this. "Alright. This way, then." He waved his torch toward the left and headed off in that direction, Hathaway at his side. But they had only gone a few steps, sweeping their torches back and forth in the dark, when there was a gentle whooshing sound and a flickering, orange glow appeared a few hundred feet away.

Lewis took off toward the glow, sprinting as fast as he dared, given the treacherous footing. Hathaway paused long enough to call for backup, then ran after the inspector.

In less than a minute, the glow had turned into leaping flames, snapping and crackling upward. The roof of the small wooden garden shed was already engulfed and smoke was streaming from around the loose-fitting door. Lewis had flung himself into flames before, and he knew speed mattered. The door fell easily from his kick and he burst inside. But the thick smoke stung immediately his eyes and he didn't see the large man behind the door. He felt the blow though. Something heavy crashed across his shoulder.

Sutter had been aiming for Lewis's head, but just as he struck, Lewis tripped over something on the floor. Landing heavily on his knees, he fought to regain his footing. Sutter again raised the spade he held, but it never fell.

Hathaway flew through the door and body-slammed Sutter. The big man dropped his weapon and staggered away, stumbling over the rubbish-strewn floor. Hathaway went for Lewis, but the older man waved him away.

"Get Fred!" He pointed to the body lying on the floor of the shed.

One glance and Hathaway saw that Fred was bound but alive. His bright eyes glittered at the detectives, utterly fearless. Hathaway grabbed him under the arms and dragged him toward the door.

Sutter advanced menacingly toward Lewis, as flaming debris began to fall around them. Lewis didn't want to leave his quarry to the fire, but he had little time left. Sutter was grinning now, as though he'd gone mad. _Probably has_.

There came a sudden crashing sound, and two PCs rushed into the shed, one grabbing Lewis by the arm and bodily throwing him out. Lewis fell, coughing and reeling, onto the ground. The two PCs emerged a few seconds later, Sutter held tightly between them. He struggled as they worked together to put handcuffs on him. Medics were already working on James and Fred, another approached Lewis while two more warily neared Sutter. The fire crew finally managed to get their hoses going, but there was not much left of the shed by then. Most of their efforts focused on keeping the flames from spreading to any other structures or to the trees.

Hathaway strolled over to where the technician was attending to Lewis's shoulder. "Looks like Fred will be okay. Doc said otherwise the smoke could have done him in. But the floor of the shed was the best place for him to be."

"Sutter wasn't on the floor, how come he's still standing?"

Hathaway glanced up to the medics working on Sutter. They weren't doing much. James snorted. "He looks fine, doesn't he? Must be the benefit of being a fire-giant."

Lewis gave him one of those _don't start with me_ looks, though he knew he was being wound up. Then he let a slow, wise smile work its way across his face. "C'mon, James, we've a lot to do yet tonight."


	8. Epilogue

"Is Lewis alright?"

Jean Innocent stood next to Hathaway as he worked on another cigarette.

"Yeah, he's fine. Why?"

"He closed the office door and I can see him in there with his head on his desk."

"Well, it _is_ five in the morning. And he _did_ go through three hours in a rather grueling interview with a rather nasty piece of work." He turned to make direct eye contact. "You wouldn't begrudge an old man a bit of kip, would you?"

She shook her head with an accusing smile. "Now, now, Sergeant. Do you want me telling Lewis what you just now called him?"

Hathaway chuckled. "Not a chance, Ma'am."

She gave him a superior smile, which turned into a collegial one. "So, what is the result here?"

"Sutter was pretty arrogant during the entire interview. It may be that he confessed falsely to some things as part of an ego trip. But everything he said correlated to the evidence, including bits we haven't released publicly. He says he actually believes this is the Ragnarök and he has no control over his actions. He confessed to killing Joe Baldwin, admitted he lured Manny and Janet Solis into the wolves' enclosure by telling them they needed to release Greyback because events were out of their hands, confessed to releasing the guard dog Harmer so that Tyrone Battle would be killed, admitted he gave Patrick O'Dan the idea of trying to stop it all by retying Greyback, and confessed to releasing the Gaboon viper and goading it to attack."

"And attempting to kill Fred Godwin?"

"He hasn't said anything in response to those questions except, _I am one of the jötnar. That is my destiny_."

She frowned. "Sounds like something out of Star Wars."

James smiled humorously. "Fortunately, we have Fred's statement, which is plenty incriminating."

"No chance for a cock-up, then?"

It was Hathaway's turn to frown. He shook his head slowly. "Ma'am, there's always a chance for a cock-up."

She started to open her mouth, but he interrupted. "We are the humans. That is our destiny."

Her scowl turned into a laugh. "Sergeant, I think one or both of us need some sleep. Why don't you send Lewis home and I'll see you both back here in, say, six hours?"

"Very good, Ma'am."

* * *

Laura sipped her tea, then set the cup back on its saucer. "So what happened to the woman James was interested in? He _was_ interested in her, wasn't he?"

"Oh, aye, interested, and maybe a little intimidated. But she and her brother decided to move back north. They like the Odinist League people up in Durham better, apparently."

She cocked her head with interest. "_Intimidated_? Not our James?"

"Well, her being a fertility goddess and all, y'know." He smiled impishly. "A man finds that kind of pressure just a wee bit intimidating." He smiled at his own cup. "You wouldn't know any other fertility goddesses, would you?" Then he tipped his head up, and she caught the twinkle in his eye.

She furrowed her brow in concentration. "Mmm. Well, none that are intimidating." She beamed at him.

He responded in kind. "Good."


End file.
